by Paul Moomaw
Sometimes I hate men, she thought, and then said to Tarbell, “Because the woman always pays,” and didn’t add, out loud at least, you selfish bastard.
Tarbell stared at her, his mouth hanging open. Then he sagged back into his seat.
“I guess I’m feeling sorry for myself,” he said.
“I guess you are,” Gabriela replied.
Tarbell pulled a pistol from under his jacket, a large, ugly Browning Parabellum. “If they die, Parker and Delon are going to die, along with anybody else who tries to stop me.”
“Maybe the simplest thing would be just to use it on yourself,” Gabriela said quietly, and turned to look at the power plant.
Tarbell put the gun away silently and slipped the car into gear. When they got within about a hundred yards of the power plant gate, a police car, lights flashing, tore away from the other vehicles and headed rapidly in their direction, then skidded to a sideways stop, blocking the road. A uniformed policeman leaped from the car and waved them to a halt. He approached the car with a rapid, stalking strut.
Jesus, Gabriela thought, don’t men ever stop play-acting?
Tarbell rolled down the window on the driver’s side as the policeman leaned down.
“There is no passage here, Monsieur,” the policeman said. “A matter of public safety.” He pointed down the road behind them. “You will find another highway at Metz to take you around this site.”
Chet pulled an identity card from his pocket and held it out to the policeman. “My name is Tarbell, of the United States Embassy in Vienna.” he said. “My wife and daughter are in there.”
The policeman’s eyes widened. He switched his gaze ostentatiously from Tarbell to Gabriela and back again.
“This is Mademoiselle Gabriela Villani, who is also attached temporarily to the embassy.”
The policeman’s eyes flicked between them again. “Of course,” he said, in a way only a Frenchman could. “Un instant, s’il vous plait.” He turned and marched back to the police car, where he stuck his head through the window for a full minute or more. Then he jumped into the car, which spurted around behind Tarbell’s vehicle, circled it, and pulled up in front, facing toward the plant. The policeman’s hand, which had in the interim grown a white glove, appeared from the car window and delivered a classic cavalry charge wave.
“Fucking French,” Tarbell said, and followed the police car down the road.
Fucking men, Gabriela thought, but kept her mouth shut.
She was out of the door as soon as Tarbell pulled up to the gate and turned the engine off, but it was clear she would not get much farther. The main gate to the plant area stood open, but a military van, red and white lights and an antenna revolving on its roof, blocked it; and the fence itself, a good ten feet high and topped with barbed wire, extended as far as she could see in both directions from the gate.
She leaned against the fence, twining her fingers around the chain link fabric. She wondered where, in the gray blocks of concrete, Pray and the others were—and what was happening to them. Tarbell’s voice, rising and falling in angry rhythms, distracted her, and she turned around.
“My wife and daughter are in that place, and I’m going inside,” Tarbell was yelling at a middle-aged man dressed in a uniform that stretched tautly around a pot belly.
“And I am General Oberon Cornuse, who is in charge,” and the uniformed man poked a stiff index finger against Tarbell’s chest, “Totally and completely in charge, of security arrangements here. I decree that you will not go inside the fence. Furthermore, Monsieur, if you try, I will have you arrested and chained to this van.”
Whatever it was Tarbell was opening his mouth to reply, Gabriela never heard, because a soft whump from the direction of the power plant, followed immediately by wailing sirens, commanded her attention. She turned back to the fence, and stared at the plant. Nothing looked different, but she was sure the sound had been an explosion, and had come from somewhere inside the buildings.
Everyone began milling around and shouting back and forth. General Cornuse vanished into the interior of the van, which appeared to be a command post of some kind.
Gabriela realized, as she stared at the empty space where Tarbell had been, and then beyond that to the dark figure which scuttled toward the plant complex, that no one else had seen him slip away.
Chapter 51
The click of hard leather heels announced the return of Moreaux.
“What is it?” Delon asked, as the other man entered the room.
“I’m back, is all.”
“I told you to stay with Orsine.”
“And he told me to come back here, so here I am.”
Delon stepped quickly in front of Moreaux and backhanded him. “Orsine is not in charge here, understand?”
Moreaux, who stood half a head taller than Delon, didn’t flinch. He stood impassively, the Uzi hanging in the crook of his arm.
“You are in charge here, I understand. But you were not over there.” He jerked his head behind him. “Orsine refused to lift a finger until I left. ‘I’m in no hurry,’ he says. ‘I can wait until Hell burns itself out,’ he says. And then he sits down on the crate, and crosses his arms, and stares at his toes. So I came back. It was the sensible thing to do.”
Delon spun, flinging his arms around, and took a few paces away from Moreaux. Then he turned again and faced the other man.
“All right, then. Make yourself useful by taking care of her.” He gestured toward the fragile looking young woman hostage whom he had separated from the others. “I think Duval doesn’t have the stomach for it. Take her to the front entrance, so those pigs outside can see you do it.”
Moreaux grinned and grabbed the woman by the hair. “Maybe we can have a little fun first, eh, cherie? You ever do it in front of an audience?” He was still talking to her as they moved from view.
Pray stared at Delon, hating him, while a part of him wondered irrelevantly if he would hear the gun when the woman died. He decided that if he had anything to do with it, Moreaux and Delon both would go down the hard way. His hand pressed against the derringer that lay in his trousers pocket.
He still stood there, straining to hear, when Moreaux returned, the woman’s hair still wrapped around his fingers, but dragging her now instead of pushing.
“Fucking gun doesn’t work,” he said, hurling the Uzi to the floor, where it skidded into the wall. “It’s jammed or something. Stupid to use fucking Jewish guns to begin with.”
Delon rolled his eyes and sighed theatrically, then extended a hand toward Duval. “Give me yours,” he said. “You don’t have the balls to use it, anyway.”
Duval tossed him the submachine gun. Delon pointed it down the hallway and pulled the trigger. A deafening burst of gunfire and ricochets filled the room.
Elaine Tarbell screamed, then stuffed her fist into her mouth. Her mother stepped closer to her, hugged her and stroked her hair, murmuring something into her ear and glaring at Delon.
“You’re a bastard,” she said.
Delon just grinned and then pointed the gun suddenly at her. She didn’t give an inch.
“Fuck you,” she said.
Maybe there’s a little fire inside you after all, Pray thought.
Delon gave a jerky little bow, then turned and flipped the Uzi through the air toward Moreaux.
The gun still floated in midair, rotating, Delon’s hand halfway back to his side, and Moreaux’s free hand reaching out, when everything seemed to stop. Pray blinked, and started to wonder what was going on.
Then the floor hit him in the face, hard.
It was only then he heard the roar that filled the air. He lay flat, fighting to remain conscious, while waves of colored light alternated with blackness before his tightly closed eyes. His chest and stomach were wet, and he felt the wetness creep to his legs.
Jesus, I’ve had my whole front blown off and I’m bleeding to death, he thought. He waited to die, and didn’t. He waited some more, he cou
ldn’t tell how long. Then, dizzy with the effort, he lifted his head and looked around. Smoke rolled down the passageway from the direction Orsine had taken the plastic explosive.
Pray held a hand in front of his face and stared at it woozily, not understanding why it failed to drip blood—his blood. He looked at the other hand, which was also innocent of the slightest tinge of red. Then he realized he was lying in a pool of water.
“Water! The shock of that lifted him shakily to his feet. Orsine had been placing explosives. Where better than against the pipes which ran water through the reactor to cool it?
No water meant no cooling, and no cooling meant . . . Pray’s mind refused to go on with the thought.
He looked quickly around. Delon sprawled on the floor, halfway under a metal table next to the big windows, out for the count—at least Pray hoped so. Duval was scrambling for the exit on his hands and knees, a look of terror on his face. Moreaux looked as mean unconscious as . . . no, not unconscious. His eyes popped open, wavered briefly, then focused on Pray. He rose to a crouch and looked around, then froze momentarily, staring at the submachine gun which lay a couple of body’s lengths away from him.
He and Pray charged at the gun simultaneously. Pray had the advantage, because he was already on his feet. But Moreaux was fast, and closer to the gun. He got it into his hands and swiveled to face Pray.
It’s quicker than a meltdown, anyway, Pray thought, and launched himself into the air, cocking his leading leg for a kick to Moreaux’ head that would be his only shot at the Frenchman.
The Uzi and Pray’s foot fired off at the same time. Pray screeched in panic as he heard the sound and felt a buzzing flutter at his crotch. Then his foot shot into the Frenchman’s jaw. Moreaux straightened out as if he had been tugged by a giant rubber band, and collapsed on the floor.
The Uzi skittered through the water and came to rest. Pray glanced at it, then back toward Delon, who was now very much alert. He held a large, ugly pistol in one hand, and Elaine Tarbell in the other.
Pray took a last, despairing look at the Uzi, then stood as still as he could, his right side turned away from Delon so that the other wouldn’t see his hand slipping into his pocket and wrapping itself around the derringer. Then he ostentatiously put his left hand into the other pocket and turned to face Delon.
“Another such victory, and I am undone,” he said, and offered Delon what he hoped was a disarming grin. “Pyrrhus, sort of. He was Greek.” He shrugged. “You win, Delon. You can let go of her, and let’s get out of here before this place goes all to bloody hell.” Pray knew he needed Delon to give him space. At fifteen or twenty feet, the Hi-Standard was accurate enough to hit a man-sized target, but Pray had no confidence he could miss Elaine.
Delon pushed Elaine forward. “You’re going to die right now, Pray. A contract is a contract. I always fulfill my obligations, and I don’t want the CIA angry at me.” He smiled over Elaine’s shoulders. “Keep your hands in your pockets, turn around, and kneel for me, Pray. I want to savor this.”
“Fuck you, Delon. I die in my own way.”
Delon spit into the water, which covered the entire floor to an increasing depth.
“Do as I say, Pray. Do it my way, or you get to watch this little bitch die first.” He jammed the pistol barrel under Elaine’s jaw.
“Leave her alone, you bastard!” Susan Tarbell flung herself at Delon, screeching like a harpy, clawing at his eyes. Delon staggered back and let go of Elaine, who stumbled and fell to the floor. A muffled explosion rang out, and Susan Tarbell stiffened, then slumped to her knees, blood staining her blouse.
Pray had the derringer out and pointing at Delon as the other man turned to face him.
That’s right, give me a good target, Pray thought, and squeezed. The derringer’s long trigger pull, close to an inch, felt like a yard before the little gun went off with an ear-splitting crack, jumping and stinging Pray’s palm.
Delon stopped moving, and his eyes widened in shock. Pray dropped to a crouch, pointed the little gun more carefully, and fired the second, and last round. This time he saw a little puff of dust as the bullet struck Delon in the bread basket.
Delon stood there, his own gun held out, still determined to use it. A funny smile formed on his face, and his eyes widened briefly. Then they began to close, gently, slowly, as if they knew they had all eternity for the task. The smile twisted into a rictus, and then Delon went over, all of a piece, like a tree falling, never letting go of the gun. His head bounced twice as it hit the concrete floor. It sounded like a cantaloupe.
Pray took a deep, gasping breath, and realized he hadn’t been breathing. He remembered Moreaux, and looked across at him. The Frenchman still lay on the water-filled floor, and the crooked angle of his neck said he would never move again. Pray hurried to Susan Tarbell. She had sat up, and held her side, blood seeping through her fingers. Her eyes were dazed, but calm. Pray squatted beside her.
“How are you?” he asked.
“I’ll live,” she said.
“You sure?”
She nodded weakly. “I’m sure.” Suddenly, a beautiful grin spread across her face. “I really am sure, you know? I can tell.”
Pray squeezed her shoulder gently and hoped she knew what the hell she was talking about. He helped her to her feet, then looked around. The young French woman, the one Moreaux had been supposed to kill, stood shivering in a corner of the room. Pray wondered if she had been there all along.
“Come here, please,” he said in French. “Do you know where your friends are?”
She approached timidly, nodding.
“Good. Go and let them out. Tell them they are free to leave. Then please come back here and assist this young lady to the outside. She is blind.”
The woman nodded again and scurried off. Pray felt a breeze curling around the inside of his thigh, and looked down. His trousers were shredded, from the knee to the crotch. Pray remembered the submachinegun, and shivered.
Moments later the Frenchwoman returned and went to Elaine Tarbell’s side. Pray wrapped one of Susan Tarbell’s arms around his waist for support, and began to lead her slowly toward the exit.
Two policemen, followed closely by Gabriela, approached Pray and Susan as they neared the gate. The policemen positioned themselves, one at each of Susan’s shoulders, and led her away.
Gabriela clung to Pray, and he allowed himself to sink into her, soak up her softness, and the scent of her skin, and her perfume, and the damp wool of her jacket. Finally, he pulled himself away.
“God, I’m glad to see you,” he said.
“Shit, I knew you were going to die in there. It was so awful.” She wrapped herself around him again and squeezed him so tight he worried for his ribs.
Then it was her turn to pull away.
“Where’s Chet?”
Pray looked at her, puzzled. “What do you mean, where’s Chet?”
“He went in there. Didn’t you see him?”
Pray stepped away and slapped his hands hard against his forehead. “Oh, Jesus Christ. He’s really in there somewhere?”
Gabriela nodded.
“That dump is headed for a meltdown unless something happens fast. And . . .” A sick feeling squeezed him. “Oh, my God.”
“What’s wrong.”
“That guy Peter. The little Austrian. He’s in there too, with a whole shit load of plutonium. And he’s just looking for somebody to kill.”
Gabriela grabbed him and shook his shoulders. “Forget it, Adam. Let the authorities handle it. You already got to be a hero. Drop it.”
“If they go rushing in there en masse, anything could happen. I can’t just leave Chet there.”
“Forget it, Adam. Chet was in this as deep as Delon, anyway. He’s getting what he asked for.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“He told me, goddammit. Now leave it alone.” She pointed at a cluster of men on the other side of the grouped vehicles. “See? They even have those
funny suits to keep them safe.”
Pray looked in the direction she pointed. About two dozen men milled around, carrying various pieces of odd looking equipment, and adorned in one-piece jumpsuits of shiny yellow and gray material, topped by sealed hoods. He broke away from Gabriela and circled around to the group of men, coming up on them from their rear, and reaching for his wallet at the same time. Crossing his fingers, he approached the first man he saw who appeared to be his size.
“Pardon, Monsieur,” he said, tapping the man on the shoulder. The other turned.
“Urgent message for you,” Pray said.
The other man opened his hood. Pray held out two fifty dollar bills.
“One hundred dollars, American for the loan of your garment for a brief time. Fifteen minutes, twenty at the most.”
The other man’s eyes widened at the sight of the bills waving in front of his face. He looked quickly over his shoulder, then grinned and nodded, and led Pray hurriedly behind a nearby truck.
Chapter 52
Chet Tarbell peered cautiously, his gun comforting his hand, down the long, brightly lit corridor that angled sharply off to the left a few yards beyond where he stood. He had found a side door into the power plant; the main entrance had seemed too exposed. Now he wondered where he was, and why everything seemed so quiet. Even the sirens, which had gone off so nearly synchronously with his own entrance that he thought at first he had set off some kind of alarm, were silent. The floor of the corridor was filled with water, and he wondered where that came from, too.
He swayed and caught himself, then looked down and laughed. He had been standing on tiptoe, unconsciously trying to save his shoes, brand new Italian wing tips, from the water. A memory floated unbidden into his mind, from his South Texas childhood, when he and his mother had carried on guerrilla warfare in the early spring and late fall of every year, because he wanted to go barefoot and she forbade it. So he would wait until he was out of sight of the house to take his shoes off in the morning, and at the end of the day would seek out water or mud to tromp through after putting his shoes back on, because his child’s logic told him that would convince her he had been dutifully shod all day.